


I Think You're My Best Friend

by anonymonster



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymonster/pseuds/anonymonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, having a cat witch with nudist tendencies for a roommate is really inconvenient. Sometimes, it's incredibly freaking annoying. Sometimes - sometimes, it works out just fine.</p><p>It's the end of the week, and Soul is stuck outside his own house with an armful of melting groceries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think You're My Best Friend

There’s something about the way Maka holds you that’s like nothing else. You know it’s not the grip of her hands that matters, but the hold your souls have on each other, but – in her hands is where you connect, where she makes use of you, where you fight and fly and risk your lives.

She wears gloves when she fights, soft but sturdy, and if that isn’t a metaphor for the rest of her.  It used to bother you, because skin gripping metal is so much more steady in battle (and because you get jealous when you watch Tsubaki and the Thompson sisters, one layer closer to their meisters than you are), but it doesn’t matter to her (just like the gloves didn’t matter when you two clashed and _burned_ ). Her hands are strong and your souls will do as they will. The gloves are meaningless in both respects.

(Sometimes, you wonder if the place her hands settle most naturally isn’t your throat, because she grips you tight, tight, tighter, and then she throws you around like you’re nothing and you go fucking breathless.)

You belong to each other the way that you can’t belong to anyone else. You’d know – you’ve tried. Black Star, who pounds out over thirty thousand push-ups less than twenty-four hours after Kid pounded _him_ into the infirmary, doesn’t even manage to budge you off the ground. You might as well be Mjolnir, a hammer of the gods who can only be only wielded by the worthy. (Or so the myths say. In reality, Marie’s pretty nice as far as her meisters go.)

But you think sometimes that _you’re_ the one who’s worthy of _Maka_ – worthy to protect her, though you don’t always feel it, worthy to follow her wherever she might go, worthy to die bleeding on a church floor for her.

Worthy for her to cry over because you’re _not_ worth that to her, you’re worth so much more than a slow death caused by a stupid fucking set of double doors that only opens one way.

There’s something about the way Maka holds you when you think you might be looking at her for the last time that makes you so so glad to have been born a weapon just so she could wield you. And you experience it, again and again and again because that’s who Maka is – the one who fights until the very end and then onwards. And because in the end you two are the kind of idiots who don’t let something like certain defeat stop you in the face of a demon sword, of a witch, of a kishin.

And you think, that’s why you can’t tell her. Because what you have is broken and perfect and ruthlessly functional. All it takes to change a soul is a few words, and because of that there are three that you can never say to your meister.

It’s just as well. You don’t think ‘I love you’ could ever convey the all of your feelings, anyhow.

But _boy_ does it still suck to stand here with an armful of crinkling grocery bags, scuffing the toe of your shoe on your own front stoop because Maka hung a tie on the doorknob.

You’ve never even seen that tie.

You guess that’s better than if it was _yours_.

Aren’t you supposed to hang ties on your bedroom door, anyways, not your house?

… At least whomever she’s with has a decent taste in ties?

There’s pretty much nothing you can say to yourself that’s going to make you feel less shitty, okay. Or less awkward. There’s ice cream in one of your bags and the back of your neck is starting to sweat as the sun laughs in the background. It’s gonna melt and Maka’s gonna hit you over the head with a book because you’re gonna tell her that you forgot to put it away because you’ll tease her as much as the next person but you don’t want to actually humiliate her.

Then again, if she hung the tie, doesn’t that mean she expects you to see it? Aaaaugh, you have no idea what to do.

“Soul? What are you doing out here, did you forget your keys?”

You sputter, and have to desperately juggle grocery bags during the resulting fumble. In the end, Maka catches one from you, laughing, and you sag down to the steps.

“With that kind of clumsiness, I guess it’s good that I’m the technician, huh, Soul?”

She straightens out her jacket beneath her when she sits by you, and you laugh nervously. You can’t imagine having to be the one to wield a – a Maka scythe? The thought that you would no longer be her weapon is very nearly revolting.

“Seriously, though,” Maka goes on, “What are you doing out here?”

“Uhh – there’s a…”

You are being supremely uncool, you are aware of this, but cut a guy a break. You gesture weakly at the doorknob.

“Wha - oh!” Maka goes red in the face, “ _Blair!_ ”

“You think the _cat_ did this?” Then again, given the cat in question-

“Have you seen how she dresses? And she keeps shoving her chest in your face when she’s naked! I wouldn’t be surprised, and besides, who else would it be?”

You decide to never ever mention that you thought it might have been her. “Maka, you fight in a miniskirt. Though I guess it’s not like you have a chest _to_ shove-"

You are unceremoniously cut off when you flinch wildly. A book has appeared in Maka’s hands from Death knows where (and Lord Death probably does know where, he’s the only other one you’ve seen who does chops like Maka) and there’s a glint in her eye. She waits just long enough for your eyes to go a little wide before beaming you over the head with the thing, right where you already have a bruise forming from the last time you made a dumb comment like this.

“Not cool… not cool at all…”

Little stars circle in your vision, slowly turning green (like the last thing you saw - the flash of her eyes right before she gave you this concussion), and you moan piteously from where you’re sprawled halfway down the steps. By the time you come to, Maka has fished out some of the ice cream you bought. There aren’t any spoons, but the little tubs come with these flat wooden peanut-shaped utensils, and she’s licking the remnants of some cookies ‘n’ crème off of one. You stare at the flick of her tongue until your eyes uncross, and then realize you can just barely see under her skirt from this angle, the dip where her thigh-

The _next_ time you recover enough to think straight, Maka has relocated further down the steps to sit next to you, and there is a tub of chocolate on your chest. Plus a little wooden spoon-thing.

Your head gives an almighty throb when use an elbow to sit yourself up, and you whimper. Maka smirks through another spoonful of cookies ‘n’ crème.

“Serves _you_ right.”

It does and you know it. You whine about it anyways.

“Oh, shut up and eat your ice cream. I don’t know about you, but _I’m_ not going in there until Blair comes out, and this stuff might melt by then.”

You shut up and eat your ice cream, and also try to ignore the way your soul buzzes all pleased-like when Maka leans her shoulder on yours. You think she notices anyways, because she smiles at you and turns her head to kiss your jaw cheekily. You – you don’t know what you’re thinking when you do it, but you turn at the same time and before she realizes it, she’s kissed you on the lips.

It’s cold and sweet and kind of sticky and Maka goes very very red until you’re so shamed when you realize what you just did that you think you might just brave the house and the Blair within anyways, right this very moment.

You don’t, because even though Maka is still very very red, she leans in again, careful, slow, and presses her lips to yours one more time. She’s watching you as she does it, watching your eyes (wider than dinner plates, you think), and at some point she’d put her hand over your shoulder to help her lean up, so when she kisses you your pulse jumps under her thumb and she smiles into it.

It’s cold and sweet and kind of sticky the second time, too.

Maka huffs a laugh against your lips and drops her head to your shoulder, and you realize you just mumbled that out loud against her mouth. You are being _really_ cool today. Like, the _epitome_ of cool. The _Black Star_ of cool. You’re so cool that you’re pretty sure you can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, and at some point you dropped your little wooden spoon thing.

You’re going to talk about this. You know you will. It may take only three words to change a soul, but Maka said none of them and you can still feel yourself straining half-resonant towards your meister. If you pay attention, you can sense her soul humming against the side of yours, too, warm and possessive. Her hand is still on your shoulder, and her thumb slots perfectly into the dip of your throat.

But for now, for now – for now Maka is smiling at you like everything worked out just fine - like your head _isn’t_ throbbing determinedly while you sit exiled from your own house, eating slowly melting ice cream on the front steps because your _cat_ of all people decided that four in the afternoon on a Friday night was the ideal time to get laid.

You lick the taste of cookies ‘n’ crème from your lips, and grin wickedly before telling Maka: 

“Y’know, you’re not disproving my theory about who could’ve hung up the tie- OW!!”

**Author's Note:**

> A silly little thing to channel my Soul and Maka emotions. Thank you for reading! Reviews and crit are my eternal <3 <3 <3.


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